𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟐. 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬

"'Morning, Dream!"

"Good mor–what?!"

It breakfast on the next day. Clay's arm jerked mid-pour and a torrent of orange juice splashed out of the carton. His glass overflowed, tipped over, and flooded the counter. Citrus-smelling liquid started dripping onto the floor.

You knew. But he didn't know you knew, so it had been your duty to reveal it in the most jarring way possible. It'd be rude to burst out cackling, point your finger, and dance around him like a gremlin, so you restrained yourself to laughing.

He took a deep breath. Behind him, more drops of juice slid off the counter. Struggling to keep his voice flat, he repeated, "What did you just call me?"

"I think you heard me correctly, Dream." The orange puddle on the floor was starting to grow. Noticing this, Clay (Dream?) cursed under his breath and tore off a wad of napkins, applying it to the counter.

You fought to swallow your amusement. Helpfully, you started on the floor. By some otherworldly fortune, both of your clothes and his letters had been spared.

He sighed. "How long have you known?"

"I found you on my recommended last night." You opened his fridge and took a slice of bread, popping it into the toaster.

He nodded. "Call me Clay, not Dream."

Clay's plate was piled high with toast, eggs, and many strips of bacon, now cool. He had managed to pour himself a cup of juice on his second try. You crunched a corner of your toast. The tabby circled them beneath the table.

He took another breath. "Okay. If you're going to stay here, we'll need to set up some ground rules."

You nodded.

"Number One: no posts, no pictures."

'Oh, sure. I'll set the house on fire but it's fine if I don't take a picture of it, right?"

Clay skewered an egg. "Number Two: no arson."

"Darn it."

You finished with a swig of water. "Number Three: don't come in when the door is closed. I'm probably recording, streaming, or editing."

You nodded. He paused, seeming to have run out of ground rules.

"Is that all?"

Clay started on his toast, stopping mid-bite. "Oh, wait–I should have asked you yesterday. In the past 14 days, have you experienced fever or flu-like symptoms?"

"Nope."

"Cool. Number Four: don't catch COVID. Also, clean up after yourself and be reasonable."

That's right, you realized with a pang. In sharing his living space with you–completely free of charge–Clay wasn't just being generous, but also risking his own health and well-being. "Clay, you don't have to do this."

"I know. But where else will you go?"

"Let me... help pay for the apartment?"

"You can't afford a hotel room. Don't worry about rent." He set about finishing the remaining half-slice of toast and bacon.

"Let me... write you a tremendous IOU." You fiddled with your fork. "Oh, wait! I'll help around the house–cook, clean, do laundry, and feed your cat."

"Her name is Patches." All done, Clay bent down, scooped her up, and rubbed her head. "And I can take care of her myself, you don't have to do that."

You swallowed the rest of your water, turning the glass around in your hands. "Please let me do something."

The circumstances of your arrival had cast doubt on your competency. "You can... cook and clean?"